


Lazarus

by glorious_spoon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-22
Updated: 2009-11-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:58:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean rises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lazarus

Slick-salt blood, sweet as honey. The taste of screams in his mouth, and it's been a long time since he's bothered to figure out whether or not they're his. They're everywhere, and his hands work like smoothly oiled machines, cutting, slicing, writing the new shape of his world in blades and blood.  
  
The soul hangs shredded on the rack, and he smiles, strokes its cheek with a hand that's becoming less and less human these days. It was a man, once, he thinks. He was a man, once.  
  
 _Please,_  it whispers, and shudders, and dies.  
  
For an instant, it's silent. Then, in the space between breaths, the pain hits. Worse than anything Alastair has ever done, burning through to something forty years of hell couldn't touch. Too late, he struggles, writhes against the hand that grips him tight and pulls him away from his knives and his rack and the red comfort of shrieking agony  
  
and he's falling  
  
or rising, shifting, falling to pieces and coming together in a hard, dark place that stinks of death and dirt. The wrongness of his body around him, half-liquid with decay  
  
and then breath  
  
and  _life_  coursing through him, blazing, a furious sunrise that sears his soul and drops him back into darkness.  
  
Breath, again. His own. Lungs expanding, air that tastes like cold and rotting things and a hard flat surface beneath him, darkness above him and he can feel, he can touch, the rasping surface of pine boards beneath his fingers, his body beneath his clothes, his heart pounding, ears hearing the echo of his own breath, eyes seeing. Nothing.   
  
 _Zippo_ , he thinks. And then it's there in his palm, the tang of lighter fluid and a small flame, and he's speaking, gasping out  _Help, help me_ , in a voice he no longer recognizes as his own.  
  
The boards above him give way beneath his fingers, and the dirt, and he's clawing his way up, hands bloody, fingernails torn. And then, suddenly, light.  
  
A pale September sunrise in a broken forest is the most beautiful thing he will ever see.


End file.
